Answering Prayers
by satanslut
Summary: *Set in the summer between Seasons 2 and 3 of BTVS* Looking for answers about her daughter, Joyce heads for Angel's mansion... and finds answers she never expected.
1. Chapter 1

Answering Prayers (Chapter One)

Joyce isn't sure exactly why she's here – or why she didn't turn back any of the three times she got lost trying to find this place – but here she is. She's at the large, dilapidated house Willow referred to as 'The Mansion.' The name is accurate, she supposes, but there's nothing very Gatsby about it and that's still Joyce's benchmark for the term, all the 'McMansions' sprouting up like weeds all over the suburbs notwithstanding; though she must admit that at least this place has spacious grounds, unlike the lot-line-to-lot-line monstrosities she'd fled to live in what she once naively believed was one of the last affordable, pure, wholesome cities in California.

Sunnydale. What a name for a town that seems to give new meaning to the term 'nightlife.'

Explain to her again why she hadn't chosen Sierra Madre? There were dozens of artists living there, great gallery space, and a charming home in the foothills that, if she had resigned herself to never again buying herself a pair of shoes anywhere but Payless, she could have just managed to afford. Oh, that's right – the school district was lousy and her idealistic hippie side hadn't wanted to be one of 'those' people who sent their children to private schools.

Right now, she'd give anything to go back in time, bite the bullet, and send Buffy to Flintridge Prep.

One foot in front of the other, she edges slowly down the crumbling steps toward the entry, almost melodramatically slow and careful, clutching the stake she found under Buffy's bed. She's been told that Angel's been gone since the night that Buffy ran away, but are there other vampires here? Willow said something about creatures called 'minions' and Joyce's eyes dart frantically, even as she realizes she has no idea what she's looking for.

She should have asked Willow more questions, though she probably asked her a thousand the past few nights over tears and cocoa, trying belatedly to understand a daughter she isn't sure she ever knew… a daughter she might never _get_ to know… a daughter who's gone.

Her only child – her baby – is gone.

Unbidden, tears fill her eyes. Why is she even here?

She knows why she's here.

This is the place her daughter was. This is the place where – according to Willow – Buffy fought Angel to save the world.

Why? Why did it have to be Buffy? No one asked her – no one asked _her_! She's Buffy's mother, damn it, and there are laws about child labour and about permission and this Slayer thing isn't… the tears have become sobs as she stands in the doorway, looking in, wondering… wondering.

Her sobs quiet sooner than they should, because she's a mother and a divorcee and she's used to reining in difficult emotions so that they won't upset her child, make her want to live with her father instead. She thinks now, though, that maybe that was a mistake. Was she too perfect? Is that why Buffy hadn't…

Flashback to a 'treatment center' and now she collapses. That's why Buffy wouldn't tell her… _couldn't_ tell her. She was terrified that Mommy would lock her up again in that terrible place… that place for crazy people.

Buffy isn't crazy.

Buffy was never crazy.

There _are_ vampires and demons and … oh my god, there was one in her kitchen drinking cocoa right where Willow sat last night and… Yes, her daughter had sex with one.

Her Buffy, her baby… slept with a monster. Slept with a real monster who lost his soul because of it and she must have been so hurt and so scared and she couldn't come to Joyce with any of it. She had to carry that pain all by herself.

What kind of horrible mother has Joyce been?

Can she handle the truth?

Getting up, she brushes the dirt from her legs and tries not to think about what might be in that dirt – Willow's babbling inevitably veered into what the kids call TMI – as she makes her way into the house.

She looks around. If she were watching a movie or a TV show about vampires, this is exactly what their lair would look like. It's almost too stereotypical and she wants to chide Angel for his lack of imagination. The part of her that once wanted to _be_ the artists whose work she now sells wonders why a vampire with centuries of experience and travel and knowledge couldn't have bought himself a smart little pied-a-terre with gleaming modern fittings and lavishly comfortable furniture… oh, and a fine collection of art, as well.

Another flashback, this time to something she found in Buffy's room – a sketch with an elaborate A for a signature – and she wonders: Is Angel an artist?

Willow says he has his soul back, that the spell she cast… Oh dear. Willow. The girl she's thought of almost as another daughter, Buffy's best friend, the shy girl with the eager grin… she's something different too, something that can cast spells and restore souls to dead, evil things.

Is anything what it appears to be in this town? Mr. Giles isn't really a librarian, Willow isn't really an awkward schoolgirl, Buffy isn't really…

But she is! No matter what name those people who forced her to be this Chosen Person call her, Buffy was, is, and will always be first and foremost Joyce's baby and all she wants is the chance to hold her little girl close and tell her that, to tell her that she's sorry, that she's not perfect and she was scared and she lashed out, but she didn't mean it and… why won't she just come home so Mommy can fix it? Whatever 'it' is.

Where is she? Where is Buffy?

It suddenly occurs to Joyce to wonder… what if she's here? What if she's hiding out in this place? Holed up with some food and clothes and terrified that Joyce is too angry at her for it to be okay for her to go home.

That's a very real possibility and Joyce's heart leaps with the hope that maybe, just maybe, she's found her child. Still, she needs to be careful… and quiet. So she makes her way cautiously further into the house, looking around, trying to see if there are any signs of life.

She goes upstairs, tiptoes, looks in every room, but aside from dust and dank and… a wheelchair (?), she finds nothing, certainly nothing to show that anyone, even a Slayer, has been living here for the past few weeks. With a heart now heavier than it was before, she trudges back down to the main room, her eyes once again full of tears.

Joyce doesn't pray, or at least she hasn't in a long time, but as close as she's come to it, she's closer than that now, hands clasped, eyes heavenward as she hopes something good and wise and powerful is listening to the plea of a desperate mother: "Buffy," she says softly, "if there's something… some way I could show you that it's okay, that you can come home, if there's some way to make you _want_ to come home."

Suddenly she hears a noise and she jumps back as a blindingly-bright beam of light shines on the hearth. She pulls the stake out of her purse as the light fades and…

Oh god! It's Angel. It's Angel and he's...

Why is he naked? Where did he come from?

And wherever it is, could Buffy be there now?

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

Answering Prayers (Chapter Two)

There's a naked man lying on the floor right in front of her and Joyce is paralyzed. Where did he come from and what is she supposed to do? Is she in danger? He's still a vampire, right? She flips through her memory, trying to think of everything Willow told her about Angel. Yes, he's still a vampire, but he has a soul and theoretically that should mean she's not at risk of becoming lunch.

Still, she's not putting this stake down anytime soon.

He isn't getting up. Why isn't he…? You know, now that she thinks about that, she's actually glad since she has already seen much more of her daughter's ex-boyfriend than she ever should have and the full frontal view is something she'd prefer to avoid. "I… I'll go get you some clothes," she says as she awkwardly edges around him and hurries back to the staircase. His clothes should be in one of the bedrooms, probably the master since, according to Willow, he was the head honcho or whatever you call it with vampires.

Why didn't she ask him about Buffy?

She can do that once he's dressed, so she rifles through the dresser drawers in the largest and most lavish bedroom and comes up with a pair of… black silk pajama bottoms. No matching top. Is there at least a robe or something? But there isn't, at least not one near at hand and frankly, Joyce is too eager to get back downstairs and start asking questions to waste time rummaging through the closet in search of more clothing. The pants will cover the most important parts and that's all that matters. If Angel wants to be more modest, he can dress himself later.

She all but races to the room where Angel is and she's surprised that he's in exactly the same position he was when she left, though admittedly grateful since she's at least not seeing anything new. "Angel?" she says, softly and gently because it occurs to her that antagonizing a recently-evil vampire would probably not be her smartest move ever, "I brought you something to wear."

Something must be wrong with him because he doesn't even look up at her. He's craning his neck, staring at the hearth as if searching for something, but he still isn't getting up and she suddenly realizes that he looks thinner than she remembers…and weak.

On the one hand, that's good, since she's _not_ a Slayer and she's not sure that even with a stake she could kill a vampire by herself if he suddenly attacked, but on the other hand… she's a compassionate person by nature and concern kicks in automatically. "Do you need something?" she asks, waiting for an answer that never comes. He still hasn't said a word. She tries again. "Are you hungry?"

The response to that is a turn of his head toward her at last… accompanied by a flash of gold in his eyes and a brief blur of ridges on a face she'd once thought was handsome; she can't stop herself from starting and taking two or three hasty backward steps. "I… I'll take that as a yes." She's guessing what she just saw was what Willow alternately called a 'game face' and 'vamping out.' It's scary in a way that calls to the instinct to flee from footsteps behind you when you're walking alone. It's the reminder that there are things out there in the darkness that you'd rather never see.

It's further proof that her daughter is something unlike any other girl anywhere.

How did she give birth to someone who could face these things… who could _love_ one of them?

And then she remembers Spike and how nice she thought - _thinks_, if she's honest – he was and she wonders if she's the tree from which this apple fell after all.

None of these thoughts are practical or helpful, two qualities which would serve her well right now, so she harkens back to Willow's babble, because Angel is hungry and… didn't Willow mention something about a bar? A bar for vampires? Gilly's or Billy's or… Willy's! That's it! Willy's. Okay. _That_ is something practical. That's knowledge she can use. "Can you get up?" she asks, deciding to worry less about seeing what she has, after all, seen on other men and more about getting him to this Willy's place so he can eat something… something that isn't her or some innocent stranger.

He struggles, but can't seem to manage, and, leaving the pants on a chair and resigning herself to having to touch him, Joyce goes to him and tries to help him stand. Unfortunately, he's dead weight and he quickly collapses… taking her with him. "Ouch! Damn it!" Her leg hurts like heck, especially the knee she's sure is at least severely bruised after its hard contact with bare stone.

She struggles to get up and that's when she notices… okay. He's big.

No, that's not something she ever wanted to know, but somehow she doesn't blush – maybe because he seems so completely innocent of the fact that he's stark naked and that makes this all seem a lot less like a dirty joke than it would otherwise.

He seems more than innocent… he seems fragile and terrified and disoriented. He still hasn't spoken and she wonders strangely if he remembers how.

Where did he come from?

She knows that she should call Willow and have her bring Mr. Giles here to handle this and leave Angel in their hands. That's the sensible, intelligent, rational thing to do… but she isn't going to do it. Maybe it's just her bitterness and anger, but she doesn't trust Mr. Giles as far as she can throw him, and she knows that even if she were to beg her, Willow couldn't be counted on to keep secrets from the teacher Joyce knows she has a crush on – she's not completely oblivious to the workings of teenage hormones, even if she did miss her daughter becoming a Slayer – so what that means is…

Oh god. She's going to do this. She's going to try to find this Willy's Bar and buy blood and take care of a vampire and she's going to do it all on her own.

It occurs to her that she's doing exactly what Buffy would do if she were here and tears form as she realizes that now, in this moment, she knows her daughter for the first time.

Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out, she belatedly notices a throw lying on the couch and she fetches it to cover Angel. As she tucks it around him solicitously, she starts to tell him, "I'm going…" but she doesn't finish the sentence because he grabs her hand, looking for all the world like a child afraid of the dark. The irony that he's the creature children fear is lurking there isn't lost on her, but it fades into the background as she tries to soothe him. "I'll be right back," she reassures him. "I'm just going to get you… food. Then you won't be hungry anymore." She smiles and touches his cheek, hiding her discomfiture at the way he leans into the perfunctory caress and trying not to pull away too quickly. "I'll be right back," she repeats.

As she heads out of the mansion and back to her car, she knows she should be pondering all the larger questions, but all she can think about is how to get to Willy's and the proper way to ask someone to sell you blood.

She really is her daughter's mother.

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

Answering Prayers (Chapter Three)

Joyce finds Willy's more easily than she found the mansion. It's a rundown, dirty dive bar and she shudders as she approaches the door, but then she shakes her head, draws herself up, and gives herself a pep talk. "You can do this," she says under her breath as she plasters on what she hopes is a stern and resolute expression before walking in.

If possible, this place is even more disreputable-looking on the inside than it is outside – more than that, however, is the fact that she's pretty sure she's the only human being in the room… and it's not empty. Don't stare, Joyce. You're the mother of the Slayer. Act like this is all in a day's work. So she affects a casual stride and makes for the bar. Luckily, Willow got more than a bit verbose when it came to the subject of Willy and Joyce immediately knows he's the sniveling fellow behind the counter. "You must be the proprietor." She smiles automatically and wants to kick herself for it afterward. At least _try_ not to act like this is a PTA meeting, would you?

Of all the times for this thought to come to her, but when did she become this? She owns her own business, for god's sake. She's even done some post-divorce dating (though that went badly). And yet… it's as if mother is her go-to, the fulcrum of her _self_. Shouldn't she be a woman first?

Willy's is not the place to get sidetracked by an existential feminist crisis so once again she schools her expression into something harder and more threatening and asks herself: What would Buffy do?

She decides the best approach is to get right to the point. "I need some blood." There's a muffled chuckle from halfway down the bar and she feels the hairs go up on the back of her neck. Something sees her as prey.

Joyce Summers has no intention of dying in some filthy hole in the wall. "Look," she says in a louder and more commanding voice, one even she is shocked carries not a hint of 'Mommy' in its tone, "You can either give _me_ the blood or I can tell the Slayer she has to come and get it for herself. She won't be pleased about that and if she's not pleased, I'm pretty sure _you_ won't be either."

"I… uh… I heard the Slayer was out of town."

Her whole life, Joyce has been a terrible liar.

She turns a cool, unblinking stare on Willy. "You heard wrong." Ice water voice and she can feel the tension in the whole room, knows without looking that creatures are making their way to the back door.

What do you know? Joyce isn't a bad liar at all anymore. "Now could I please have that blood?"

Moments later she is carrying 'a dozen bags, on the house, and tell your Slayer I said hi' out of the bar and back to her car. She's watched but no one follows.

It's a rush, and if the power she feels is borrowed power, it's enough to show her that Buffy does get something out of all this. What must it be like? Being the Slayer… the one girl in all the world…? There's a feeling… not jealousy, because she loves her daughter fiercely and with all her being, but she wishes she could be, just for one moment, as special as her child is.

Never once in her whole life has Joyce been extraordinary and it doesn't even seem logical that she could give birth to… but she did, didn't she?

Maybe that's her own extraordinary.

So it all comes full circle and she's back to being Mother because it's the one and only thing she's done that seems to mean anything.

Again, she shakes off the existential angst and gets back to the business at hand – going back to the mansion, feeding Angel, and seeing if he has any idea where Buffy is.

The drive feels so much shorter now that she knows where she's going and it's the blink of an eye opening in front of the place she's also calling The Mansion because it's just easier to go along with the name the kids call it. Getting out of the car, she hurries to Angel with her bag of take-out in hand. "I'm back," she calls out as she reenters the forbidding room where he's lying right where she left him, wrapped in the throw and shivering. That makes sense since it's cold in here. Should she light a fire? Because she's pretty sure this place doesn't have central heat.

Something tells her not to and so she goes to a chest she sees by the hearth and, as she thought, it really is a blanket chest and the contents are woolen and warm. She takes two of them out and carries them to Angel along with a bag of the blood.

Scarcely has she drawn near when he snatches the bag from her hand… growling. She drops the blankets. His face is now a frightening mask of ridges and fangs and golden eyes and those same fangs tear through plastic, gulping the blood greedily and downing it in seconds. He needs more. She can see the ravening hunger in the inhuman gaze now turned on her, runs back to the sack Willie gave her and fetches two more bags, wonders if this dozen with which she started will be enough after all. "Here," and she hands him one more, which he drinks, a shade less greedily than before, and then the next, after which his face becomes soft and human and handsome again. Perhaps he's satisfied for now.

He is, because, to her surprise, he takes her hand and looks at her gratefully… before lying down and falling asleep. At least she finally concludes that he's asleep. It takes her a moment of panic before she realizes his chest isn't moving because he doesn't breathe. He's a vampire and even though he eats and sleeps and… oh god, had sex with her daughter… he's…

Dead.

His chest never moves and his heart isn't beating because he's dead.

Buffy had sex with a corpse.

Her baby's first lover wasn't even alive.

Nothing in Joyce's life has prepared her for the reality in which she now finds herself.

She stares at the sleeping cadaver on the ground before her and there are a million questions in her head, questions she can never ask Buffy.

Picking up the blankets, she tucks them around Angel.

You know, he still hasn't spoken a word.

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

Answering Prayers (Chapter Four)

Joyce should go home; she knows that. She should leave the sack of blood bags next to Angel, maybe write a note or something, and go back to her house – her normal, ordinary, middle class house.

How did she end up in that house?

She can still – sometimes, not often, but sometimes – see the girl she used to be in the mirror. The girl with ambition to be an artist, to change the way people saw the world around them, to run off with some wild boy and live by their wits and their art. She even has the occasional dream of Fook Island and what it would be like to live there. So how in the hell did she end up in mom jeans and a frumpy hair cut with a house full of Ethan Allen furniture?

How did she wind up as the kind of woman who would put her daughter in a mental hospital for being different?

If she were Buffy, she'd never come home.

Tears start sliding down her cheeks. As much as she likes to cast blame on Mr. Giles and whoever the shadowy people Willow calls 'The Council' are for everything that's gone wrong between her and her daughter, she knows it's projection at best and outright hypocrisy at worst.

That realization only makes the silent tears flow freer and faster.

Of course, self-pity only lasts so long. The one good thing about having shed so much of her girlish identity is that she's taken on pragmatism instead and it helps her to shake off the tears and ask the big question: What is she going to do now?

She sits, silent as ever, staring at the sleeping figure on the ground. He looks so fragile and human, doesn't he? But from everything she's learned… How many people has he killed? How many innocent lives have flowed through those veins? Is he sorry? What difference does his soul make?

Then other thoughts come. What would it be like to live for centuries? What has he seen? My god, he was probably in Europe when Impressionism was brand new and avant garde. And Dada. Did he experience any of that?

Is it strange that she's almost envious of him?

It's silly to be, though, and she gets that. Suppose it helps that one thing she has never found romantic is the idea of vampires, not even when that hot Michael Nouri played Dracula on TV. She liked him much better in Flashdance. Please don't ever let Buffy remember that her mother once owned two of those torn sweatshirts, or go through the photo albums and find…

Buffy can see all the embarrassing pictures of Joyce ever taken if only she'll come home.

Speaking of embarrassing, Angel has moved and the blankets have shifted and… oh god. There it is again. She feels almost dirty for this, but the first thing she thinks is that she didn't know there were ones that big outside of the guys in porn.

That's a humiliating memory – oh, not the part about watching porn, but the part where Hank scoffed at her and told her to turn it off, that they weren't "those kind of people". He didn't touch her for weeks after that, though he hadn't really touched her for a long time before that either. At the time she'd thought they needed to spice things up – hence the trip to the video store – and then she'd thought he was just aging and slowing down. Of course, as it turned out, he just couldn't keep up with two women at once, and he chose to give it all to his secretary.

His _secretary_. God what a cliché. Couldn't he at least have left her for another man or something?

No time to cry over a tale so ancient that it comes packed in mothballs, because Angel is moving restlessly and crying out, clearly in the throes of a nightmare. Getting over her delicacy, she goes to him, wondering what to do. Should she wake him? What if that startles him and he attacks her? Taking a deep breath she decides to trust her instincts and kneels down beside him, close, but not touching. "Angel?" she says in the soothing, motherly voice she used to use on Buffy. "It's all right. You're safe. Nothing can hurt you."

How bizarre is it that what worked on a six year old girl worked nearly as well on a centuries old vampire? But what matters is that it did; she exhales in relief at that. No telling what she'd have done if it _hadn't_ worked. She stares as his features relax and he seems once more so young and so innocent.

Suddenly and with no warning, his eyes pop open and she almost starts. There's no gold in those eyes, though, none of the ridges that betray what he really is, so she takes a calming breath and smiles at him. "Did you sleep well?" she asks, feeling like an idiot for asking that after having just soothed him through a nightmare.

He just stares. No, he hasn't said a single word since his return.

Maybe… Is he so silent because he doesn't remember her? "Do you know who I am?"

A tilt of the head and he's looking at her quizzically. It reminds her of a puppy, like a cocker spaniel she had when she was a girl. Why doesn't she have a dog now?

Oh, that's right – Hank hates dogs.

He's out of her bed, out of her life, but somehow he's still calling the shots. Damn him.

You know, Willow's become what seems like a pretty skilled witch. Do you think she'd know any spells that could shrink…?

Don't go there, Joyce. He's the father of your child.

Besides, Hank's is small enough already.

She fights back a giggle at her own impudence and wonders when she started thinking like… god, she needs to get laid, doesn't she?

And isn't _that_ an appropriate subject for reflection in the presence of your teenage daughter's boyfriend.

He's still staring at her.

"I'm Buffy's mom," she finally adds, hoping it will help… and it does, just not in the way she expected.

The look on his face is sheer terror and he shrinks back. Dammit! She forgot – Willow told her about the fight. Guess he's still pretty shaken up. It's totally inappropriate, but she's more impressed with her daughter than ever. That tiny girl is strong enough to scare a vampire so completely. Wow.

But then she looks into his eyes and she feels just awful and she wonders if all that fear can just be from a fight because she's never seen such terror, not ever, not even in the eyes of six year old Buffy. "It's okay," she says, voice soft and soothing, "I won't hurt you. I promise." She reaches out her hand and he takes it, gazing at it as if he can somehow read it. Can he?

Minutes pass and the silence is almost deafening in the absence of her voice. What is wrong with him? What's happened to reduce him to this? She squeezes his hand and he looks up and into her eyes. "Where were you?" she asks, wondering if he'll ever speak.

He stares into her eyes as if he's searching for something and this time he's the one who squeezes _her_ hand, too tightly as if he's struggling somehow. His mouth opens and closes once or twice with no sound and she asks again, "Where were you, Angel?"

It's no use. He just keeps staring and struggling and she's about to give up when there's a soft, croaking sound.

"H-hell."

To be continued…


	5. Chapter 5

Answering Prayers (Chapter Five)

Did he just say… "Hell?" Taking in his wide eyes and the tremors that now seem to have seized him, Joyce is sure she heard Angel correctly. "Oh my god."

The first thing she thinks: There's a Hell?

She has to admit to finding that unsettling and unnerving. After all, until a few hours ago, it had been years since she'd even done anything like praying. Oh, she sort of vaguely believes in God, but church? She barely remembers the last time she attended.

Of course, now that she thinks about it, how much harder is it to believe in Hell once you've accepted the existence of slayers and demons… and vampires?

You know, her college Theology course never prepared her for this. Come to think of it, college didn't prepare her for much of anything. Time to wonder if maybe her parents should have saved their money.

Stay present, Joyce. There might be a test on this later.

"Okay," she says, as much to herself as to the disconcertingly fragile and frightened vampire before her, "so you were in… Hell. How did you…?" She doesn't finish the question because she knows the answer. Somehow, though for reasons Joyce knows must have been good and right because she knows her daughter at least that well, Buffy did this.

Buffy sent the boy – scratch that, vampire – she loved to Hell.

Whoa. This changes everything, doesn't it? Now she thinks that maybe her own failure as a mother isn't the only reason her daughter took off for parts unknown.

"C-close your eyes," Angel croaks, each word effortful still. Joyce looks at him quizzically, but she soon sees that he's not making a request; this is a memory. She can tell by the way he's staring past her into nothing. Oh god. Were these the last words her daughter spoke before she did what… what she had to do?

"You're home now," Joyce says, trying to be comforting and tucking the blankets around him again. "You're home and you're safe and you won't be going back to… well, you won't be going anywhere." As she finishes her business with the blankets, her hand almost brushes against… that was close, and closer to being _way_ too close to her daughter's first lover than she'd prefer.

Oh no. Is she blushing? She feels like she's blushing.

"Would you like some more blood?" she asks, just a shade too cheerily. Now _he's_ the one with the quizzical look. "I just thought you might be hungry." He seems to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. The silence has returned. Is there something she should say? Something else she should offer to do besides… "I brought you some pants," she suddenly blurts out, "in case you'd like to…you know… get dressed." Stammering like a silly schoolgirl there, aren't you, Joyce? But she leaps to her feet and retrieves the pajama bottoms…

…only to turn back around and see that Angel is standing…

…without a blanket wrapped around him.

Oh my. There it is again. Big as life.

Yes, Joyce, you definitely need to get laid.

She resists the urge to look away, instead plastering her 'Mom' smile on her face and keeping her eyes above Angel's waist. "Here you go." He reaches out and takes them from her, his eyes locked on hers now in a way she finds disconcerting. That's just because she's uncomfortable already, though, she's sure, so she shakes off the feeling and turns away, hoping that signals him to put the clothes on.

It does, because after a moment, she turns around and he's indeed wearing those silk pajama bottoms. He's still imposingly masculine and she's not any less uncomfortable. Probably the vampire thing, though it's not as though this is the first vampire she's ever spent time with. She thinks of Spike with a pang. Does he have a soul, too? Because he seemed so nice.

That's possibly not the safest way to think. Her mind goes back to Willy's and to that feeling of being considered prey. She needs to remember that, she decides, because – like it or not – she's now officially part of the world her daughter lives in.

What on Earth is she going to do? Angel is standing there as if waiting for instructions and her own stomach is letting her know that vampires aren't the only ones who get hungry.

She needs to go home, that's what she needs to do. Eat something, maybe take a short nap, and then… then she'll come back here.

No, she's not going to tell anyone that Angel's returned.

"I need to go back to my house," she says, just as her stomach growls, "but I'll be back, okay?" He looks worried so she hastens to reassure him. "There's more blood in the bag over there. So you can eat or rest or…" She shrugs, not really knowing what else vampires do. "I'll be back soon," she repeats. He doesn't move – or speak – so she smiles again, and then she leaves.

Back in her car, she breathes. It feels new and strange, but then doesn't everything today. She's the Slayer's Mom and if that title doesn't come with a set of super powers like the ones her daughter has, it comes with a whole bag of surprises. Breathing again, she tries to come to grips with them.

Yeah. That will not be happening soon.

Maybe instead you should just think about some of the more mundane questions you have, Joyce. Like: Do vampires use the bathroom? What? It's a perfectly legitimate question. After all, their equipment apparently works for _some_ activities… activities she does _not_ want to think about, thank you. Think about something else.

Is Angel an artist? She wondered about that before and she's still curious. Maybe she'll go up to Buffy's room, see if she saved the drawing Joyce thought she saw once. At least it might give her something to talk to him about or… does art therapy work on vampires? After all, Angel must be traumatized by being in Hell.

She can't begin to imagine what that must have been like. All right, it was only for a month and Angel's a demon so maybe it was easier for him but… no, somehow she doesn't think so. He seems very damaged by what he endured.

You know, while she's on the subject of Hell and damnation, the whole matter of his soul is bothering her. Willow told her about vampires being soulless and that what made Angel turn evil was losing the soul he'd been cursed with, but Joyce is sort of confused by all of that. Plenty of human beings are evil, or at least heedlessly cruel, and they have souls… don't they?

Maybe she should have taken a better Theology course.

No time for any further reflection, though, because there's a car in her driveway. It's a Citroen, so she immediately knows that Mr. Giles is here. She parks her car in front of her house and as she gets out, the man himself all but runs to meet her. "Mrs. Summers… Joyce... I… Is Buffy with you?"

What? Buffy? Joyce is stunned. But before she can ask any questions, he continues. "I heard… that is, there are rumours… The word is that the Slayer is back in Sunnydale. Have you seen her? Has Buffy come home?"

To be continued…


	6. Chapter 6

Answering Prayers (Chapter Six)

"I heard… that is, there are rumours… The word is that the Slayer is back in Sunnydale. Have you seen her? Has Buffy come home?"

It takes a moment for all of Mr. Giles's words to register, but when they do, Joyce's briefly soaring hopes come crashing back down to Earth. Boy, word sure travels fast in Sunnydale, doesn't it? Because it's clear that the rumours he's talking about resulted from her recent visit to Willy's. Proof that her daughter has quite the reputation, but proof also that there's no cause for celebration today.

Before this afternoon, Joyce would have had no confidence at all in her acting ability, but now… now that it seems she's got all the demons in Sunnydale running for cover with one sentence spoken in a dimly-lit bar? Yes, she thinks she's up to the task of fooling a man who lied to _her_ for a year. "No." Then she pretends to be frazzled. "I was out this afternoon talking to an artist about a showing at the gallery. Oh god. What if Buffy came home and I wasn't here?" To her shock, there are even tears in her eyes. One day… one day with a demon and she's so changed she can scarcely believe it.

Mr. Giles is completely taken in. The tears probably did it. "There, there," he says in a patronizing tone she hates so much. He sounds just like Hank. "You could hardly have known. And if she has indeed returned to Sunnydale, she'll certainly come back here. I should telephone Willow and Xander…"

"Do you want to come in? Use my phone?"

He considers it, but then says, "No, no. I don't want the line to be busy in case she calls you. I shall return home, call from there. In the meantime, you wait here, in case she returns or calls."

"Okay," she replies, eyes wide and manner eager. "I'll call you if I hear anything." She reaches out and grasps his hand. "Thank you," she says with ersatz earnestness thick enough to choke the air from her lungs.

Of course he's uncomfortable with the gesture; he's such a stereotypically British type. But right now she's glad of it because his discomfort hastens his departure and after a few more 'yes, right, well's' he's gone, his Citroen puttering back from whence it came.

Joyce pulls her own car into her driveway and then goes inside the house, heading straight to the refrigerator. She's not just hungry; she's ravenous. Luckily, there's leftover Chinese takeout and, without even bothering to heat it up, she dispenses with a fork and just eats some sweet and sour pork right out of the container.

Mmmm. So good. She almost moans as she feels the food head down her throat. There's something about that first bite when you're practically starving…

You know, she hasn't eaten food straight from the carton like this since college. Back then, she hadn't worried about napkins or keeping her elbows off the table, or about how impolite it is to eat with your fingers or... about any of those rules she's drilled into Buffy as if she herself had never broken any of them.

If she closes her eyes, she can still remember wiping greasy hands on faded jeans before kissing... Cory. Was it Cory? Yeah, he was the one with the long, blond hair... almost as long as hers. In seconds she's awash in memories…

Catching a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the microwave door brings her right back to the present. Not for the first time today she wonders: How did I become… this?

Was it sudden, all at once, the day she married Hank? Or was it a gradual chipping away until all that was left was this suburban housewife-turned-divorcee pretending she's still a creator by selling the works of people braver and bolder than she ever was?

God. This is such a depressing train of thought. Can she please, _please_ get off at the next stop?

She takes the container of Chinese into the living room and plops down onto the couch, scarfing down the contents after grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. The local news is on. There's not a single mention of vampires or demons.

When the food is done, she covers herself with a throw and cuddles against the well-worn and anything but decorative pillows, letting the talking heads discussing the mundane world she used to believe in lull her to sleep.

It's anything but restful, the hour or so of sleep she manages to get, and she wakes up suddenly from a dream whose details immediately evaporate but which leaves her shuddering and she's certain that the fabric of it was woven of the things she's learned and seen. Was it like this for Buffy when she learned that monster movies were a better source of information on current events than CNN?

Oh how she wishes Buffy really were back in Sunnydale. There's so much she wants to talk about with her daughter.

She can't, though, because Buffy's not here.

But Angel is and she needs to get back to him.

Things are more complicated now, however, because of Mr. Giles, so she takes a moment to think about how best to cover her absence should anyone come back here to see if Buffy has returned after all. She knows they'll see that her car is gone

One thing Joyce has noticed is the tendency of Buffy's friends to just come barging in without knocking, so, chancing that now that night is falling she'll probably be in less danger from burglars rather than more like in normal cities, she decides she'll leave the door unlocked… and write a note for Buffy which she'll place in plain view on the table in the entry.

So she gets pen and paper and, struggling to keep the tears at bay, she writes: "Buffy. If you read this, please stay here. I'll be right back. There's so much I want to tell you, sweetheart, but first and foremost, I need you to know that I love you and I'm sorry and I want to do everything I can to make up for what happened. Wait here for me. Love, Mom."

Is it silly that a small part of her thinks that maybe, just maybe, Buffy might actually come home and see it and she should have been leaving that note every day anyway? But she feels that very hope and she knows that, in spite of missing all the pieces of herself that got lost along the way, one thing she can never regret, despite all the pain she's in now, is that she's a mother – a mother who loves her baby and wants so much for her to come home.

Then pragmatism reasserts itself and she realizes she should have a cover story ready in case Mr. Giles or one of the kids wonders why she left instead of waiting… a moment ago she'd been thinking… Burglars! That's it! She'll tell them she got a call that the alarm system at the gallery had gone off and she went to check, thinking it might even be Buffy. That's the ticket!

Taking a deep breath and deciding to save the ruminations about how maybe her daughter didn't pluck her powers of dissimulation out of thin air, or Hank's DNA, after all for another day, she grabs her coat, her purse, and her car keys and heads out the door.

It seems like the drive to Angel's takes mere seconds this time and she's almost shaking as she walks back down the crumbling steps that lead to the entrance. She's only been gone for about two hours, but that doesn't mean nothing happened while she was gone. Is he okay? Has he eaten?

Did Mr. Giles or one of the others come here and find him?

"Angel?" she calls out tentatively as she makes her way back into the cold and unfriendly mansion.

He's on the couch, wrapped in blankets but shivering all the same and she goes to him. "I'm back," she says brightly. "Just like I promised."

Had she promised? She doesn't remember for sure. But as she sits beside him, she's completely unprepared for the fear and desperation in his eyes or for the way he grabs her hand, his voice still a pained rasp as he begs, "Don't leave."

To be continued…


	7. Chapter 7

Answering Prayers (Chapter Seven)

Angel's grip is tight, tighter than normal, though come to think of it, it's not like Joyce knows what's normal for a vampire. Well, except for one thing: She's sure that being helpless and afraid is anything _but_ normal for Angel and his kind. "I'm here," she says, placing her hand over his. "I'm right here."

Obviously that was the right thing to say because his grip loosens. Good thing, because she can feel her hand tingle from the loss of circulation. "I should probably get you something more to wear," and she's about to get up when his grip tightens again. She hastens to explain. "I'm not leaving the house. I'm just going upstairs to get you some more clothes." Her voice is the soothing, motherly tone she'd used on Buffy back when her daughter had been a toddler peculiarly prone to nightmares. Funny how not until now does it click… that must have been when something in her little-girl brain had seen… had known… had feared…

Her daughter has been this thing called a Slayer for longer than Joyce ever knew, hasn't she?

Now isn't the time. When that time will be, Joyce doesn't know, but it's definitely not now. So she hurries upstairs, back to Angel's bedroom. She takes it in more now than she did before. It's an imposing room, lots of thick, carved wood, and the sheets are silk. Angel was surely not celibate when he was without his soul. This is the bedroom of a man who has lots and lots of sex. Who was she? Was it that girl – vampire – Spike spoke of, the one that Willow mentioned too? Drusilla… that was her name, right? The one who was crazy, the one who killed the other Slayer - the one named Kendra.

The Slayer who'd been called because… oh god, Buffy died. She had died, not forever, but for a moment, and the fact that it could happen and Joyce didn't know, wasn't told… damn Mr. Rupert Giles and everyone else who put her little girl in danger every day! Because for all the super powers they gave her, Buffy still died… and Kendra, who had those same powers, is dead and has stayed that way.

Oh gosh. What about Kendra's parents? Do they know? Did anyone call them? Was her body sent home? Should Joyce… ?

A wail comes from downstairs and Joyce curses herself for all this dawdling she's done. Rushing to the closet, she finds a heavy satin robe and grabs it before racing downstairs to her fragile charge.

He's in front of the fireplace again, on the ground, right where he was when he returned; she goes to him, kneels down, and puts her hand on his arm. "It's all right. I'm here."

Well he must be getting better, because he grows calm more quickly than he has yet, but he's staring at her fingers so she looks too. They seem so dark against his unnatural pallor. It's disconcerting. "I brought you a robe." Now his eyes move to her face and she can almost see something behind his eyes – like the turning of gears… like the shifting into place of puzzle pieces scattered. Good god. What must have happened to him in Hell to leave him so broken. She lifts the robe so he can get a good look at it, maybe recognize it, and it's now that she notices… is that fur trim? Guess there aren't any vampires in PETA, huh.

He gets up before she can and, to her shock, he extends a hand to help her to her feet. One of the things he seems to have regained: manners. "Thank you." His only reply is a nod as he puts on the robe. Is it strange that the more clothing he puts on, the more imposing he becomes? She almost thinks he was easier to deal with naked… well, almost, anyway, at least if he hadn't been so… big.

Please tell her she's not blushing again.

It's odd, but she thinks the robe is… changing him? No, not that, but his eyes are closed and his expression pensive. More of those puzzle pieces coming together, picture forming.

Should she be frightened? Oddly enough, she isn't, even when he opens his eyes and something in there is sharper. It's sad, too, and maybe that's why she's not afraid. Of course, she might also be pathetically naïve, not a possibility to be discounted given how long her daughter managed to keep a secret like being the Slayer from her.

Giving credence to that possibility is her next move: asking Angel a question. "Do you remember what happened?"

He stares at her with those eyes as old as time. "Buffy." His voice is still a rasp, thick-tongued and uncomfortable, but he's less uncertain now, she can see it.

Joyce nods, but is sharp enough to see that now might be a time for damage control. "She didn't have a choice." Then, without thinking, she blurts out a truth she isn't sure she wanted to tell him. "She's gone. She left the night she… the night it happened."

His expression confounds her. She doesn't know what she expected, but this befuddlement isn't it, that's for sure. He's suddenly looking at her as if she doesn't belong here or something. What confuses her most? He doesn't ask her any questions.

A moment later, he's back at the couch, seated, and for some reason – possibly that naiveté of hers, she follows and sits beside him. "You seem better," she says brightly, her 'Mom' voice causing her to fight back the urge to wince.

Or maybe she shouldn't feel that way at all, because… did he just smile? It was a soft flicker of an expression that vanished almost before she saw it, but she'd swear it was a smile.

Then the shadows return. He's staring into nothingness and she thinks he's remembering a world that isn't the one they're in right now. "You're not going back there. I promise," though why she says that when she knows damn well she can't promise any such thing is beyond her.

He closes his eyes, brow furrowing, some sort of deep thought going on, before he turns and looks her straight in the eye. "How… how long?"

What? How long… Oh! But that doesn't make much sense. He should know how long he was in Hell, shouldn't he? "About a month," she answers.

His eyes are wide and he's staring at her as if he didn't hear her correctly and a chill she's now experienced more than once goes up her spine as she asks him almost the same question. "How long… how long were you in Hell?"

As stunning as it was to learn where he'd been, it's nowhere near as shocking as what she's about to learn.

"A…" He struggles, but this time his tongue fails him. Frustrated, he grabs her hand and using his finger, he traces numbers in her palm: One. Zero. Zero.

Oh god. Oh god.

"You were… One hundred years?" His slight nod is confirmation.

Forgetting everything he ever did, everything he is, all she can think of is the horror of one hundred years of torture. She wraps her arms tightly around him and holds him close. "I didn't know... I'm so sorry." She says it over and over as his head rests on her shoulder.

It takes a few minutes for her to notice the dampness seeping through the fabric of her shirt.

Angel is crying.

To be continued…


	8. Chapter 8

Answering Prayers (Chapter Eight)

Joyce holds Angel close as his tears keep falling. She can't imagine – knows she can't even begin to conceive – what he went through in that place called Hell, and knowing that he was there for a hundred years… The month she'd _thought_ represented his term was bad enough. "I'll keep you safe," she says, and she means it, even if she has no idea how she'll keep that promise if something comes to try to reclaim Angel.

She's almost glad Buffy isn't here to see the pain Angel is in or to know just how much longer every second that passed was in that horrible place she had to send him.

What will happen when (when, not if, please God, not if) Buffy comes home? How will Angel react to her?

Cross that bridge when you come to it, Joyce. For now you need to worry about helping him become whole again. Guess being a mother is a skill set that has more uses than she ever thought, because through all her thoughts, she hasn't missed a beat – soothing him through the tears and out the other side. He's not crying anymore and he's sitting up, looking at her with something she thinks is gratitude shining in those brown eyes. "Thank you," he says and that clinches it.

"You're welcome." Why he smiles when she says that, Joyce has no idea, but she's glad to see his mood lighten. She can only imagine how long it's been since the corners of that mouth last turned up and she's almost surprised he hasn't forgotten the mechanics.

Their eyes meet and she sees shadows, shadows she imagines for the briefest moment are shaped like flames. The curiosity she feels about what Hell was like is almost unbearable, but she's no sadist; she has no intention of asking Angel anything about that place. "Are you hungry?" Oh dear. She asked that before checking to see if there's actually any blood left from the supply she'd laid in. Then her eyes fall on the bag and she can tell by the shape that there are bags still contained in it and she can't help breathing a sigh of relief.

Which he hears. "I won't hurt you."

He thought she meant…? That's not… or maybe it is. She's not sure. She hopes not, but the truth is that he _is_ a vampire and for all the sympathy she feels for his ordeal in Hell, she can't forget that he's not unlike the creature at Willy's whose eyes never left her for a moment until she drove away.

She's not the top of the food chain and now that she knows it… No, it will never not be there in the corner of her thoughts, informing every move she makes, every conversation she has. She'll never not look at a stranger and wonder… "I know," she says, a fraction too late for it to ring the slightest bit true.

His eyes are searching and she feels almost naked. "You're right," he says, and she knows he's agreeing with what she _didn't_ say. It's almost terrifying, the way the vagueness is gone as if it was never there. It reminds her again that he's not human and she wonders if her daughter realizes this as much as she should or if soft brown eyes and a handsome face turned a Slayer into a lovelorn teenage girl too besotted to see the truth, or all of it anyway.

Buffy's absence is her answer, isn't it?

More than ever, she feels the need to hold her little girl close and brush her fingers through her hair and tell her everything will be all right, because there are three pints of Ben & Jerry's in the fridge and a copy of Thelma and Louise in the VCR and… She can't do any of it. She can't tell her daughter that now, at last, Mommy gets it and there's nothing they can't talk about. She can't be wise and worldly or sweet and sympathetic or any combination thereof.

What if her worst fear comes true? What if Buffy never comes home?

"She's gone." It's Angel's voice and it startles her, though it shouldn't.

"Yes, she's gone," and she tries not to say it as if that's the way it will always be.

"I remember you," he says and his voice is sad, as if what he's remembering is that conversation in the driveway, when he wouldn't have had a soul at all.

She nods. "You were Angelus then."

Now he's the one who nods. "I'm sorry."

Maybe it's the fact that Buffy is so present in her thoughts, but it's the mother who replies. "You should be. That's not how a mother should find out… But then again, you were probably trying to hurt me." She laughs. It's a short, harsh sound and she doesn't recognize it as herself, but she knows it's her. "I guess the good part is that I didn't know you were a vampire. That might have made it worse."

He's staring at her again and it's disconcerting, enough so that she asks rather curtly, "Is there something you want to say?"

His head cocks to the side and he says – thick-tongued and with the vagueness of dredging up a memory, "You dated a robot." He sort of half chuckles as he says it but it doesn't seem funny to Joyce at all. What a terrible thing to say to someone! Does he really have his soul after all? Because Joyce has never…! How ridiculous! The only man she's dated since Hank was…

Oh god! Suddenly a whole lot of things she'd put to the side and never let herself think about too sharply or keenly make horrifying sense and… "Bathroom," she stammers, getting up and racing away before Angel can tell her where there's one on this floor. She does remember where the kitchen is, so she finds her way there…

Just in time to lose every bite of this afternoon's meal of Chinese food in Angel's sink.

Buffy is not the only one in the family who's had sex with something inhuman, something not even alive, and somehow a robot seems even more perverse than a vampire because it was never human in the first place and… Oh god. Is this genetic? Is this why Hank ended up finding her repulsive?

She can feel Angel's presence, so she grabs a dishtowel and wipes her face before turning around. "I'm so sorry," she says, face turning scarlet with humiliation. "I'll clean this up as good as new. You'll never know that… Well, you'll never know."

"Buffy never told you," he says and though he says it like a statement, it's really a question.

So that's how she treats it. "No. No, she didn't." This time her rueful chuckle is familiar. "I can't really blame her, though. Not sure how that conversation would have gone."

"You were… with him."

Okay, that's taking things a bit too far. She stiffens, back straight, haughty froideur even she can feel, so surely he must. "That's none of your business, Angel."

He looks extremely chastened and she feels like, well, a bitch. It occurs to her that vampires probably have different boundaries and anyway, he was in Hell. His manners and sense of propriety could legitimately be claimed to have been affected severely by the trauma.

"No. You're right. It's not…" He's struggling again and the part of her that took an Anthropology of Language course before dropping it to take Accounting at Hank's urging is fascinated that certain random words seem to be giving him trouble. "I'm sorry," he finally finishes.

She's going to argue the point but what comes out of her mouth is, "Apology accepted," and somehow that seems to be the best thing she could have said because he smiles again. It's a hopeful thing and she has the weirdest feeling that she helped him in some intangible but meaningful way.

Returning his smile, she takes his hand briefly. "I better clean up the mess I made." To her surprise, and without a word, he gets out cleanser and two rags. They clean the sink in silence, but it's comfortable silence, and that's… new.

Soon, though, they're done and she glances at her watch. "Shit," she curses, shocking herself – and Angel. "I'm sorry! It's just… that will probably be at my house soon, checking to see if Buffy's come back." Before Angel can even ask, she explains, "There's a rumour that she's back… and he doesn't know that I started it. When I went to get blood for you. I told them it was for her and... well, they thought she was out of town and I had to say she wasn't and… Oh god. This is really a mess, isn't it?"

He's staring again, only this time his eyes are full of wonder… and gratitude. "You didn't tell...? About me?"

"No."

The faint glint of tears is back. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She follows him back to the… living room? Parlour? Then she gathers her things and with a firm and sincere, "I'll be back as soon as I can," she's out the door and then in her car, heading home.

A whole lot has happened since this morning, but Joyce is living completely in the moment. What in the heck is she going to do about Rupert Giles?

To be continued…


	9. Chapter 9

Answering Prayers (Chapter Nine)

Joyce wonders if she's maybe just a little psychic, because sure enough, Mr. Giles is standing by his silly Citroen, which is parked in her driveway – again – when she arrives home. All right, the first time she gave him a pass, but twice?

Focus, Joyce, now is not the time. No it's the time to put her clueless and gullible face back on, so she manages that along with a credible impression of frantic as she parks her car at the curb – unable to completely cease grumbling inwardly at the rudeness and presumptuousness of people who park in other people's driveways – and hurries to get out. "Is Buffy here?"

Oh dear. What if she _is_?

But she isn't. Somehow, after today, Joyce is sure she'll know when her baby is near.

She keeps an expression of feverish hope on her face even though what she really wants to do is tell Mr. Giles to get his damn car out of her driveway. But just then she remembers that he really _does_ feel that hope… and it's all her fault. That certainly takes at least the high out of her dudgeon and even though she's still not at all sure she'll ever like him, she at least feels some sympathy, even as he replies with an accusatory and pompous-sounding "No she isn't. May I ask where you've been?" that carries the disturbing echo of Hank in its tone.

She ignores the uncomfortable reminder of the bad old days, at least for now, and breathlessly blurts out the cover story she readied for this very moment. "I got a call that the burglar alarm went off at the gallery. I thought it might be Buffy, but she wasn't…" She lets the sentence trail off and her visitor looks slightly abashed.

"Of course." His voice is still patronizing, but she keeps reminding herself of his ordeal today and it helps. "I apologize if I sounded put out. It's just… I fear this has all been for nothing. Neither I nor Willow nor Xander have found a trace of her." He suddenly reaches out and takes her hand. "I'm so sorry to have raised your hopes. It seems this was just some wild rumour."

It's time to react and miraculously she does. Somehow the girl who failed miserably when she auditioned for a high school play has grown into a woman who can cry on cue. Maybe she can do this because she's reenacting a moment that actually happened or maybe… Either way, she's not looking a gift horse in the mouth. "I wanted… Why won't she come home?"

Will a florid display of emotion be enough to get him to leave? She has thinking to do and plans to make and… oh, it might be a good idea to try again to digest a meal. None of that can be accomplished with him here.

Mission accomplished because now he's uncomfortable, though he plays at being sympathetic. "There, there." It sounds as if he's about to pat her on the head, but he drops her hand, which is certainly contradictory but even more certainly welcome.

"I better go inside, check the machine, maybe…"

He says nothing, but the look on his face is full of pity and she wonders what would happen if he found out that _he's_ the one who's most deserving of that emotion. Does he even know what she knows? Has Willow told him…? You know, it doesn't seem to her as if she did. She might have underestimated the girl's capacity for discretion and she apologizes inwardly. Hopefully Willow retains that ability to keep her own counsel even in the face of giddy romantic longing. It will stand her in good stead down the road if her life goes at all the way it did for Joyce.

Not for the first time today, she tamps down an uncomfortable, unhappy memory.

"Yes, well, I should be on my way then." That and the exchange of awkward farewells are all that remains and soon the Citroen is put-putting its way out of her driveway.

It's not quite 'good riddance' she's thinking, but she's glad he's gone. He can tell the others the story for her and she… she can eat something and figure out what she should do about Angel.

So she heads back into the house, bypassing the note for Buffy sitting on the table in the foyer, the note she's going to leave there – just in case.

Mr. Giles has no idea just how much less his hope was than hers, even if she was the clear-eyed realist holding the cards today, because he might be Buffy's Watcher, but she's Buffy's _mother_ and she doesn't think he begins to understand what that means.

The funny thing is, until today, Joyce didn't either. Only now is she starting to realize…

The refrigerator yawns open before her, but nothing in it strikes her fancy. She ate – and lost – the last of the Chinese food and other than that, there's nothing that doesn't require more preparation than she's interested in doing, so… Yes, Joyce, for all the lectures about healthy meals and proper nutrition to which she's subjected Buffy over the years, is going to drive through a fast food joint on her way back to Angel's tonight.

Speaking of Angel, he probably needs some food too, so she resolves to stop at… oh shi…_shoot_! There is bound to be some fallout at Willy's since she's sure either Giles or the kids went there in search of Buffy and… She's getting a headache from all the complications and secrets and subterfuge.

Suck it up, Joyce. You can handle this.

But how?

Just then she catches sight of herself in the mirror and… you know, a wardrobe change wouldn't hurt.

As much as she has always mocked women who borrow their teenage daughters' clothes, necessity is the mother of hypocrisy, so… yes, she's rooting through Buffy's closet in search of something that looks less 'suburban housewife' and more 'badass demon hunter'.

Oh dear Lord! When did Buffy buy this? Joyce has rules about skirt length and this is far too…

Does it really matter now? And isn't the truth that she would almost allow Buffy to embrace nudism if she'd come home right now?

Well, well. Where did Buffy get…? Pfft! Who cares? Because it's perfect. A black leather jacket just screams 'don't mess with me' and that's exactly what Joyce needs right now. So she digs it out from the back of the closet and pulls it out into the light.

The first thing she notes is that it's too big for Buffy, too big for Joyce either. In fact, it's not a woman's jacket at all, it's…

It must be Angel's.

All the better. A demon's clothes will help her fit right in at a demon bar. So she grabs a black tank top out of Buffy's dresser drawer then heads to her room where she digs out that torn pair of jeans she could never quite bring herself to throw away and…

Two minutes later, she looks into the mirror and it's like seeing an old friend.

It's her. It's really her. The her she thought had withered away. Oh sure, there are lines in her face that are new and the hair is still awful, but… She's Joyce again.

Resisting the impulse to stand and stare any longer, she heads for the bathroom. If her daughter has taught her anything, it's that the right hair is essential to pulling off a look, so with the aid of a rattail comb and some hairspray… well, her hair still isn't great, but at least now it's less 'soccer Mom' and more 'rocker chick after a bender' and that's a distinct improvement.

Time to go. Blood waits for no one. And if Willy gives her any trouble? Joyce is Joyce once more and she's pretty sure she can handle anything.

To be continued…


	10. Chapter 10

Answering Prayers (Chapter Ten)

Now that she knows the lay of the land, Joyce's stride is much more confident as she enters Willy's bar, which is good because she can almost feel the tension in the air the second she walks in. Damn. She was right, wasn't she? Someone has been here.

Trying to appear as if this is all in a night's work, she doesn't look in either direction as she makes her way to the bar. "Need some more blood, Willy."

"Had a visit from some of the Slayer's friends," he says, an edge to his whiny voice. He's looking at her in a smarmy 'I've got a secret' way… and he's not heading off to the back to fetch that blood.

"And even though they tried to play it cool, it's obvious they don't know where she is?" Joyce lets her jacket fall open, tight black tank top doing some of the heavy lifting and her newly-confident voice doing the rest. "Well let me ask you this: If you were the Slayer, who would you trust to have your back? Some silly school kids…" She leans forward and Willy actually licks his lips. Score one for the girls. "… or me?"

_Now_ she lets her eyes scan the bar, even meeting the gaze of one almost human-looking creature… almost, except for the golden eyes. Vampire. It helps that she's seen one in full game face before because she doesn't flinch – neither does he, but he gives her a respectful nod and she feels safe in looking away.

When she looks at the bar again, Willy is gone. Where did he…? Oh, he's in the back, getting her blood. Good boy.

Another thing she learned from her daughter? Attitude is everything. She's standing, hipshot, jaw occluded, arms akimbo when he returns. She makes no move to pay and he doesn't ask. She leans forward again. "What did you tell the wannabes?" Inwardly, she feels sorry for insulting Willow and Xander this way, but it has to be done.

A voice comes from down the bar. The vampire. "He didn't tell them anything." For a second she's about to ask Willy for confirmation, but she thinks better of it. This guy feels… old. Not Angel old, but old enough that seeming to question his word would be disrespectful – and dangerous. He approaches and she does her best to seem nonchalant. "You smell like Angelus."

She does? Okay, now she's learned that vampires have some pretty amazing senses – note: don't wear perfume when you visit Angel – and this confirms where Buffy got the jacket as well. She keeps her expression blank however and answers with a noncommittal "Do I?"

The vampire laughs, exposing a row of gleaming white teeth. Don't get nervous, Joyce. If he can smell another vampire on your jacket, he'll smell your sweat for sure. His eyes rake her from head to toe; she makes no move to close her jacket. When he's done taking in the sights, he cocks his head and offers, "You look better in that jacket than he did."

That was unexpected. Well, she has no cover story prepared for how she acquired Angel's clothing and the last thing she wants to do is try winging it any more than she's already had to, so instead of saying anything, she winks.

Good call. The vampire grins, then nods, and she sees a few other nods in the dimly lit room as well; for a moment she's almost arrogant, but then she catches herself. These are demons and she's _not_ the Slayer. Another look at the vampire's eyes and… he has an agenda. Sizing her up, preparing to use her – or kill her – at some point in the future… whatever it is, her generous display of still blessedly perky cleavage hasn't turned him into a gibbering idiot like Willy, even if he did enjoy the view.

"Any chance you'll give me any blood?" he asks as she's turning to leave and yes, she was right, he's sizing her up.

"Sorry," she shoots back, cheeky but calm, "I have none to spare."

Another laugh, hearty this time, but she doesn't even glance his way, heading for the door instead.

Nothing follows her to the car. If this was a test, then she passed – at least this time.

Three blocks away, she almost needs to stop and park for a moment as her hands begin to shake badly. Did Buffy ever feel like this? Probably not, seeing as how her daughter has a whole host of powers, the specifics of which she's not entirely sure except for what little she's learned from Willow, but pretty damn impressive ones all the same.

Get it together, Joyce. Tonight won't be the last time you need to do something like this.

It's late, isn't it? There'd better be a fast food place open.

Luckily for her, that new In 'n Out is half an hour away from closing. Thank heavens, because she hates the Doublemeat Palace. There's something wrong about the taste of their burgers. So she gets into the shockingly long line of cars and takes a deep breath.

It's then that all the thoughts she has kept at bay come crashing through her barriers.

Oh god.

Another deep breath and… well, it's not really a superpower but she's a mother and she runs a business so organization tends to come naturally and she's soon partially wrangled the thoughts into some kind of coherent pattern, which makes them at least easier to deal with if not any less disconcerting.

Joyce Summers, the mother of the – temporarily – absent Slayer, is now also the caretaker of a vampire recently returned from Hell – a vampire who was her daughter's lover. She herself has… no, don't think about that Joyce. You're about to eat. Next topic? Rupert Giles and the kids. Who can't know about Angel, because…

How had she not once thought about this consciously before? It's one of the things Willow told her, breaking into tears as she revealed… Angel – or Angelus, to be exact, she supposes – killed Jenny Calendar. Willow's favorite teacher and, apparently, Rupert Giles's girlfriend.

She never met the woman, but somehow being able to put a name, the name of someone at least connected to her own life, on one of his victims makes Angel's nature more concrete, more _real_.

Vampires kill people. It's how they stay alive, or undead, or whatever it is you call their existence. All right, apparently when Angel has his soul, he only drinks from bags like the ones she got for him from Willy's, but that doesn't change her point, does it?

The vampire she talked to at the bar… he probably _doesn't_ stick to bags. No, she doesn't have that illusion. And right now he's probably out there, draining the life from some poor, unsuspecting soul who's guilty of nothing save naïveté and bad luck. Some poor soul who, a month or so ago, could just as easily have been Joyce.

But it's not, and it won't be, and if her happiness about that seems cold, it's a cold she needs to bear the chill of the world as it really is.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Joyce, than are dreamt of in what used to pass for your philosophy.

She pulls forward and at last she's up at the menu and can place her order. "Double Double with cheese, fries, and a large Coke," she says to the disembodied voice in the speaker.

Her eyes close briefly, shoulders slump, and her limbs feel unaccountably heavy. Looks like the adrenaline she's been coasting on is ebbing, and none too gradually at that. She probably has just enough juice left to grab the food and get back to the mansion. She wonders: Will she be safe if she spends the night at Angel's?

To be continued…


End file.
